Movies: ‘Call Me By Your Name’ doesn’t ring true

Thursday

Dec 21, 2017 at 11:20 AMDec 21, 2017 at 11:22 AM

By Al Alexander/For The Patriot Ledger

The spirit of Eric Rohmer lives vibrantly in the luscious-looking “Call Me by Your Name.” But, unfortunately, not his talent. Given all the praise heaped upon director Luca Guadagnino, you’d think he was the second coming of Rohmer, the master of nonjudgmental morality plays like “My Night at Maud’s.” He’s not. He’s more like a cheap imitation, and his film, a dull facsimile of Rohmer’s “A Summer’s Tale.” Like that unheralded masterpiece about a young scholar visiting an exotic place and breaking hearts, “Name” unfolds leisurely during a summer where the only thing hotter than the sun are the libidos of the teen residents of an ancient, picturesque village in northern Italy. It’s into this boiling cauldron steps Armie Hammer’s Oliver, an Adonis who’s every bit as muscular as the statues he’s come to study as a summer intern for arch archaeologist, Professor Perlman (Michael Stuhlbarg, excellent as always).

Both he and the professor agree that many of these thousand-years-old sculptures are buff enough to serve as marble and bronze aphrodisiacs. It’s a point Guadagnino drives home repeatedly with long, adoring shots of Hammer’s chiseled psychic. It’s an obsession he shares with his horny protagonist, Elio, the self-loathing 17-year-old son of the professor and his wealthy wife, Annella (Amira Casar). The boy is played by Timothée Chalamet, this year’s “It” guy based on his acclaimed work in “Name” and the superior “Lady Bird.” Although most of the buzz has been for his portrayal of the sexually confused Elio, I found him to be much more effective as the moody high school lothario in “Lady Bird.” Here he mostly mopes around, sneaking lecherous peeks at the family’s hunky new houseguest. In his hands, Elio is neither engaging nor vital. He’s largely an expressionless lump dealing with puppy love in the most benign way. But give him credit for doing to a peach what Jason Biggs does to pastry in “American Pie.” That scene has been hailed as erotic, but I merely found it gross; almost as repellent as the sexual relationship that predictably blossoms between him and Oliver, seven or eight years his senior.

Maybe it’s the current “me, too” climate that brought down alleged pedophiles like Kevin Spacey and Judge Roy Moore, but something about Elio’s relationship with Oliver struck me as anything but beautiful. It’s creepy, a feeling enhanced by Oliver’s passive-aggressive encouragements he coyly telegraphs to the naïve teen. It’s equally dispiriting how little chemistry there is between Hammer and Chalamet. Frankly, they’re rather wooden, creating bafflement as to why both are garnering so much Oscar buzz.

In adapting Andre Aciman’s acclaimed 1983-set novel, Guadagnino and his co-scripter, 89-year-old James Ivory (“A Room with a View”), display an affinity for the slow – and I mean slow – burn when it comes to Elio and Oliver’s stodgy, forbidden romance. Most of the blame for the pair’s utter lack of passion rests with Guadagnino’s choice to shoot most of their cat-and-mouse mating machinations from a distance, greatly reducing the feeling of intimacy. He and his Oscar-worthy cinematographer Swayambhu Mukdeeprom are – and understandingly so – more taken by the lovely Italian countryside and the charming little village just a mile or two from the Perlmans’ opulent villa. If the movie doesn’t have you calling your travel agent, you’re not paying attention. It redefines gorgeousness.

The only items prettier are the faces of a cast of physically appealing actors, including Esther Garrel as Marzia, the proverbial girl next door who does nothing to hide her fascination with Elio. He reciprocates to a point, but it’s perturbing how Elio leads her on, hoping that having sex with the Italian beauty will cure him of his predilection for Oliver. Hint: it doesn’t. Leading to yet another reason to dislike Elio, who also casts homophobic remarks upon his parents’ gay dinner guests, disparagingly calling them “Sonny and Cher.” The only truly likeable character is the wizened professor, who Stuhlbarg renders as the father we wished we all had. His moving soliloquy late in the movie when he schools Elio on the value of finding a special kind of love, even if it’s only for a few weeks, is further proof that Stuhlbarg – on top of his sensational work in “The Shape of Water” – is a thespian treasure. It’s he, not the overhyped Chalamet, who gives “Name” the oomph it needs to cross the finish line a nose ahead of failure. But are we really to believe that the professor has no problem with his son being molested by his houseguest? It just doesn’t ring true. Neither do a lot of things about “Call Me by Your Name.” Real people don’t behave or talk like these sketchily drawn characters. They speak from their heart, an organ not nearly as important to Guadagnino as Elio and Oliver’s twigs and berries. Instead of these boys grabbing each other by the crotch, it would have been nice if they grabbed us by the throat. Or anywhere that would make us feel something other than indifference.